He sighed, pushed his plate away and stood up. He deposited the papers on his chest of drawers, then rang the bellpull. A moment later, a lad came into the room.

“Take it away,” he said, gesturing to the table. “And return the table to its place.”

“Aye, milord.”

Arran paid no attention as the young man picked up the remnants of his meal. He went to his basin and washed his hands and face. He heard the lad go out, but he did not hear the sounds of the table being moved.

He turned around, prepared to resume his work...but there, in the open door, stood his wife, her hands behind her back. She was wearing a beautiful gown the color of butter, the underskirt and stomacher sea blue. Jewels glistened in her earlobes and just above the mounds of her breasts. She looked like a lone flower in this old gray castle.

Ah, but he was weak for her, had always been and, Diah, likely would always be. An attraction that could very well prove to be the death of him. “What are you doing there?”

She produced a box. “I have a chessboard and chess figures. I thought we might have a game.”

Arran couldn’t help himself—he let his gaze wander over her full bosom, down her waist, to the tips of her slippers peeking out from beneath her skirts. “Chess,” he scoffed. “I’ve no’ played games in an age.”

“Splendid. That means I will have the advantage, as I am forever playing games.” She smiled wryly at her jest and opened the box.

“I didna say I would,” he said, but he made no move to stop her as she began to set up the pieces. When she’d finished, she walked to the sideboard, poured a glass of port and held it out to him.

“What a presumptuous thing you are.”

She smiled as if she’d known all along that he would relent, and Arran sighed. He pushed his fingers through his hair, still damp from his bath. He stood before her in shirttails and with bare feet and would have liked nothing better than to crawl into his bed and sleep. He’d spent a day convincing grown men that this woman wasn’t treacherous when he himself had doubted it. The task had exhausted him, made him damnably feeble.

He looked at the glass of port she held out and said, “I prefer whisky.”

A softly triumphant smile lit her face. She put aside the port, poured whisky, then moved to where he stood to give it to him.

“I told you I did no’ want company this evening,” he said low, his gaze on her mouth.

“Did you?” she purred. “I forgot.”

Arran clasped his hand around the tot and her hand and pulled her closer. “I’ll allow your disobedience this time, Margot. But no’ again.”